After the Fall
by Cainchan
Summary: "People say time heals all wounds, I don't agree. There are some things time cannot cure. Some pains that go too deep. Some sorrows no one can heal. Some wounds too big to mend." asexual!Sherlock/Lestrade; friendship; love; Lestrade writes a journal about his life after the Fall.
1. Prologue

_**A special thanks to my dear beta Solrosan.  
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_**Prologue**_

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John Watson told me once that writing helps you cope with things. He told me that writing is good for your soul and mind. He said that when everything is too much and the world is crashing down it helps you deal with it. He said it would make everything more bearable. John Watson is my friend and a very wise man.

John Watson is also a hypocrite.

Three years ago we both lost someone very important, someone very dear to us. Someone who died to protect us – how, I found out later - and we could do nothing to save him. John was devastated after the death of our friend. He couldn't accept that our friend, that Sherlock, was no more. He began to drink; he lost his job and shut down his blog. So much for writing is good for the soul.

I tried to help John. I tried to save my friend. I tried to save him at least since I hadn't been able to save Sherlock, but everything I did was in vain. As it turned out, it wasn't me who would save John, it was Mary.

I'm glad he found her, she's brave and kind and she saved him in every way possible a person could save another. John is happy now, as happy as he could get, and I am happy for him. Life goes on and he and Mary got married. I was his best man although it wasn't my place. It should have been Sherlock, not me. It was a nice wedding ceremony. Everyone seemed so full of joy and I realized that things change so fast. Everyone seems to move on and they expect me to do the same.

The thing is that I cannot move on. Every day I ask myself why I couldn't protect him, why he had to die. He was so young - so beautiful - and so frighteningly smart. He could have changed the world. I said once that he could have been a great man and, in the end, he was. He was one of the best. I'll never forget the day he died, because that was the day of my greatest failure and my greatest loss. I should have been there with him at the end. I should have been able to protect him, but I failed and I'll never forgive myself for it. People say time heals all wounds, I don't agree. There are some things time cannot cure. Some pains that go too deep. Some sorrows no one can heal. Some wounds too big to mend.


	2. Chapter 1

The first time I told him that I loved him we were at a crime scene. I nearly lost him there. He was pale, he was shivering and covered in blood, but he had never looked more beautiful than in that moment with his porcelain skin and light eyes looking at me full of joy because he caught the murder. In that moment I knew I wanted to spend my life with him.


	3. Chapter 2

He came back to me. You know. After three years. He was dead and he came back. I thought that, after being offered this second chance with him, everything would be alright, that we would be happy and that I would finally feel whole again. But I suppose things never turn out the way you expect.

He's afraid and skittish during the day. At night he has terrible nightmares. When I wake up and he's not there I wander through our flat and often find him in our living room, staring out of the window, his mind thousand miles away. I don't know what they did to him - when he was trying to destroy Moriarty's network. A part of me never wants to know because the way he reacts to physical contact indicates that it wasn't anything nice.

Sometimes I need to remind myself who that slight, pale figure in my living room is. I need to remind myself that this shattered version of a man is Sherlock, is the love of my life and that he is back.


	4. Chapter 3

He is not okay. He is definitely not okay. He grows paler and thinner every day and I can't do anything. His eating issues are getting worse. It always gets worse when he has to cope with something.

John and Mary came over today. Sherlock didn't come out of our bedroom. The doctor was devastated. Sherlock told me later - after I found him hiding under our bed - that he didn't want John to see him in this state. He is ashamed. I don't know why.

His nightmares are as vivid as ever. He cannot stop screaming. I try to calm him but most of the time it's useless. Sometimes I hold his hand, the only physical contact he allows me now from time to time. A little success in a row of setbacks. You have to know, Sherlock was never a physical person to begin with. That's how he is and I've never wanted to change him. Our relationship has never included sex but before this mess he allowed me to hug him and he liked it when I held him or sometimes even kissed him. Now every touch, every embrace, seems to cause him pain. My heart breaks every time I see him flinch when I try to get near him. I don't know what to do anymore. I do not know. How can you put something back together when it's too broken to repair?


	5. Chapter 4

I cooked dinner today. He didn't eat it. It's okay, I didn't expect him to touch his food and I would never force him. I just needed something to distract myself with or I would have gone crazy. While I ate, Sherlock tried to read some article about different kinds of poisonous plants – he and his morbid fascination with poison – but he had to give up because his hands shook too much. He is in a constant state of being afraid now and it seems I cannot find a way to make him feel safe anymore. He seems so haunted all the time and I am in a state of denial. This cannot be our life. I can't accept that. I won't accept that.

Right now he's standing at the window again, looking lost and so terrible small. I want so desperately to embrace him but I know it will make everything much worse. So I stand there and for the first time after Sherlock came back, I cry.


	6. Chapter 5

He is grieving, I think. I don't know why and a selfish part of me doesn't want to know why. Maybe he lost someone on his suicide mission to destroy Moriarty's network, maybe he grieves for the part of himself he seems to have lost forever. Today I tried to talk to him about what happened. He didn't say a word. He only looked at me with his light, transparent, haunted eyes and I wished I hadn't asked. I want so desperately to share his pain, to make everything more bearable, but I don't know how. It seems impossible to reach him these days. So the only thing I can do is to hold his bony, cold hands in mine and show him that he is not alone. That, from now on, we will go through this together and that I will be by his side until the end.


	7. Chapter 6

We ate dinner together today. I think he wanted to please me or maybe he wanted to prove a point. That he's all right. That he's not broken. That everything was only a bad dream. His hands shook when he tried to bring the fork to his mouth, small tremors growing with each bite until full shivers tortured his slight frame. It was painful to watch him until I could not stand it any longer and grabbed him by one of his delicate wrists, so terribly small in my much larger hand. He looked at me with huge eyes and I could see the terror in them. I don't think he recognized me in that moment, his eyes full of anguish and fear. Quickly I let go of his wrist, as if I had burned myself, just in time to see him stand up and promptly leave our kitchen. This time I couldn't bring myself to follow him.

I found him later being violently sick, bringing up what little he had eaten; his dark locks a sharp contrast to the white tiles of our bathroom, his skin transparent and grey. The pale eyes, once so full of life, now looked empty and hollow.


	8. Chapter 7

Many people have tried to put a label on our relationship. I have to admit I would never dare to label it. I don't know what kind of relationship we have exactly. I think Sherlock doesn't know either. Or he doesn't want to tell me. Or, more likely, he simply doesn't care. We are what we are. The most important thing is that Sherlock knows that I love him and I think that's enough.


	9. Chapter 8

I have nightmares too. No one knows about them, except Sherlock. They aren't as haunting as Sherlock's, nor do I have them every night, but their intensity grew after Sherlock's fall. When I wake up I don't remember exactly what they were about most of the time. I only remember the feel of loss and grief, the feel of sorrow and pain.

I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my breath coming in short gasps, Sherlock's name on my lips, hands reaching out to hold him, to protect him. Sleep is impossible for me after that. Therefore, after Sherlock's fake suicide, when I knew a sleepless night was inevitable, I got used to reading through old case files. It was the only way I could keep my mind busy, so I didn't have to think about Sherlock and about the fact that I couldn't save him, that I couldn't protect him.

Now I got him back but the nightmares are still there. The only difference is that now, when I wake up, Sherlock is by my side. He is there, beside me. A pale figure in the moonlight, hauntingly beautiful. He always looks so otherworldly at night, with his porcelain skin, eyes bright and clear and, sometimes, when I look at him in the spare light of our bedroom, I have problems to tell if he is real or if he is only a cruel illusion of my mind.


	10. Chapter 9

When he's alone he despises the silence. Therefore he goes through our flat and turns on every radio we own, our telly and my old record player. So when I come home from work the noise in our flat is nearly insufferable. I wonder every time why our neighbours don't complain about the excessive noise resonating through the walls but I have the suspicions that Sherlock's brother Mycroft has something to do with it.

Above all, music seems to calm him in some way – his posture becomes less tense, his look a little bit less haunted, a little bit less restless. For hours he sits in front of the record player listening to Tchaikovsky, Mozart or Brahms. Never Bach. He hates Bach for some reason.

Sometimes I play on my old piano, an heirloom from my grandmother, the only thing that was left when she died many years ago. I loved her very dearly and she taught me to play when I was a child. She was a fantastic pianist. I'm not as good as she was, or as Sherlock is, when it comes to music, but I'm good enough and he always seems to like it when I play. He doesn't play his violin anymore but when I play the piano he listens devoutly to the music, a hint of a smile on his face. In these moments I can nearly see the old Sherlock in front of me. The Sherlock I fell in love with. The Sherlock who loved to play the violin at odd hours, the Sherlock who liked to chase after criminals, the Sherlock who drove me crazy with his stubbornness and his insults - especially when they were directed against my team - the Sherlock who most of the time acted like a child, the Sherlock whose genuine smile was sometimes only saved for me, the Sherlock who cared so much and always did everything to protect the people he loved, who did everything to protect me.

The moments at the piano are really rare and I've got used to savour them because when everything seems to fall apart and desperation and hopelessness get a hold of me, the memories of these moments help me to keep going, help me to keep fighting.

Sometimes when he thinks I am too distracted with the music to be aware of his presence, he stands behind me and puts his thin, cold hands on both of my shoulders, sharp wrist bones digging painfully into my flesh but I do not mind. At times like that, when I'm sure that he won't bolt, I cover his slim hands with mine and we will remain in this position for a while, both deep in thoughts, desperately holding on.

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**PS: Thank you for reading my story so far. Feedback is really appreciated!**


	11. Chapter 10

_**Again I would like to thank my dear beta and friend Solrosan. Without her, I would never post this story. :-)  
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I can't reach him. No matter how hard I try. It has been months since he came back and nothing has improved, to the contrary: it has got worse. He's as unapproachable as ever. He barely speaks and I think I'll never get used to a silent Sherlock, a Sherlock who seems to have lost his voice when he came back from the dead. Before all of this happened he never shut up, he always wanted to have the last word and I often wished he would be quiet. Now that he is, there is nothing that would make me happier than to hear his voice, even if he would only use it to make snarky remarks or harsh insults. How much wouldn't I give for a _"Am I the only intelligent one in the room? Can't you see? Are you all dense? It was the wife, Lestrade. God, why are you all so stupid?"_ Right now the chance to hear him solve crimes again is nearly as big as to see him eat a whole meal: non-existing.

It is said that faith can move mountains. That if you believe strong enough in something it will come true. I doubt that now. Faith can do many things, yes, but sometimes faith alone is not enough.


	12. Chapter 11

Love is said to be able to heal all wounds. Love is said to help you to endure, to help you to overcome things. Love is many things but there are times when love isn't enough.

Sometimes we stand together at his current favourite place at the living room window. Hands intertwined. Silence heavy between us, looking out at the London sky. Sherlock beside me. Unmoving. Cold. Beautiful, even in his despair. Sadly, misery seems to suit him. His ivory skin illuminated by the small light source in our living room and his pale eyes looking but not really seeing.

At times like these I can feel how his desperation and his fears lie like dark shadows over us. I try to be his light, try to be his saviour, try to guide him out of the dark he seems unable to escape. Instead I can slowly feel how he pulls me into the shadows with him, in his dark world, where it always seems to be night and where misery and anguish rule, where desperation seems to be the king and hopelessness the queen. Their sovereignty impossible to break for me. Everyday I can see how another part which was still left of the old Sherlock dies and with it my hope to bring him back.

I can see the shadows of the night slowly growing and one day they will swallow him whole. One day they will swallow _us_ whole. Why should I hold on, why should I keep fighting when everything I have done to help him was doomed to failure from the very beginning?

He's fading fast and I can only watch. I am the spectator of a cruel play where Sherlock is the main character, the tragic hero who, after he accomplished his feat, is destined to find a horrible end. There is no happily ever after for him. For us. It was foolish of me to believe that.

Yes, I love him but sometimes love is not enough.


	13. Chapter 12

**_Again, I would like to thank my lovely beta Solrosan. You are such a great help. 3_**

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There are days when he searches for my company, when the prospect of being alone seems to scare him much more than it usually does. So Sherlock follows me like a silent shadow through our flat, always making sure he never actually touches me or lets me get too close. He's with me when I'm in the kitchen preparing dinner. When I'm watching telly, he sits next to me, staring into nothing, his face a cold marble mask. When I brush my teeth I can see the outline of his too thin, too pale form in the corner of my eye, standing in the doorframe, looking lost and worn-out.

When I look at him he avoids my gaze, but when I don't look I can feel his eyes on me. Constantly watching. Always making sure that I'm still there. That he's not alone.

Sherlock is here with me and at the same time he's not. He seems to be trapped in his own mind, unable to come back to reality. I'm slowly running out of ways to bring him back. I often think that - with a mind like his - it must be a scary thing being trapped, unable to escape, and being at the mercy of possibly very horrible, very vicious memories. Memories about our three years apart, about Moriarty, about the time after his fall, about cruel touches, gruesome words, about constant fighting and always running and never finding actual peace.

I want so frantically to reach him, to pull him out of his thoughts, to show him that he's safe now and that no one can hurt him anymore. I want him to know that I'll make sure of it even if it's the last thing I'll ever do, but there seems to be a huge wall between us that, most of the time, is impossible for me to overcome.

Sherlock is back, but at the same time he is not. He's lost and so am I.


	14. Chapter 13

**Again I would like to thank my beta Solrosan - without her help, I would never post this story. She is wonderful and amazing. I also would like to thank Misaki12 for helping me with the French pet names. Thank you so much. 3 She also translated my story. (Link on my profile page)**

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Both Sherlock and I are fluent in French. When Sherlock speaks French his eyes always seem to glow and his voice is much softer than when he speaks English. His mother was French, he told me once, years ago, when he was captured in feverish dreams. He had caught pneumonia because he thought it would be a good idea to jump after a criminal into the Thames. He scared me deeply with that little stunt and afterwards he was delirious for days. I spent days at his side, holding his warm, dry hands in mine and hoping that he would get better.

His mother was a beautiful woman; you can see where Sherlock got his strange, otherworldly beauty. She was petite and whipcord thin with alabaster skin and long light-blond, nearly white hair, flowing in soft waves down her slender back. She had the same bright, pale, and oh so piercing eyes, that Sherlock has. I never met her; she died years ago, leaving a husband and two small children behind. Sherlock has a picture of her, with a lock of her blond hair, hidden away in a little ivory box under his bed. There are also - and it surprised me and made me smile at the same time when I found it - a picture of me when I was younger, one of my badges - which he seems to be very fond of stealing - a childhood picture of his brother Mycroft and a very sweet and very innocent looking Sherlock, and a picture showing John and Mrs Hudson smiling happily. I found the box when I was searching for his secret drug stock. I'm always afraid that he's going to have another relapse– especially when life is hard to him. I would do anything to prevent that. And by anything, I really mean anything.

Sometimes, when deep in thoughts, he speaks in French without realizing it; it also happens when he's in a very stressful situation or when he's afraid. At times like these he seems to fall back in his mother tongue. It really got better over the years and he almost doesn't do it at all anymore. I used to tease him with English and – which annoyed him much more - French pet names. He always said that I should keep in mind that he knows seven different ways to kill me - slowly and painfully – and that he would make sure that no one would ever find my body if I didn't stop calling him "_mon chaton_ " or "_mon coeur_ ". Despite his protest and great dislike of them at first he seems to have grown very fond of them in time and when he's not well the pet names seem to comfort him in some way. These names seem to have become a sign of trust, a sign of affection between us.

Since he came back I can count the times I've used "_mon chaton_" to tease him on one hand. It seems like I only use it for comfort now when he's sad or afraid – which is his permanent condition- and never achieving anything with it. Sometimes I think there are no words that can truly comfort him. Things change, people change and I should finally accept that.

But I don't want to.

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_mon chaton = my kitten_

_mon coeur = my heart, sweetheart_


	15. Chapter 14

_**As always I would like to thank my beta Solrosan, without her this story would be full of grammatical errors and other flaws. ;-)**_

_**I also would like to thank my dear friend Storystuff for writing such a wonderful review. :D You are the best.**_

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Sherlock had a couple of rough days last week. The nightmares are becoming an increasingly heavy burden. They don't let him sleep more than three hours per night, leaving him exhausted and so very tired during the day. He's very weak and that's no surprise because close to no sleep and lack of food and physical exercise will do that to a person. Sometimes it's very difficult for him to even get up or move around. It frustrates him, I think, that his body doesn't obey him anymore because, for him, control is everything. To Sherlock his body is just transport and he has always loved the idea of controlling it. It comforted him in some way, I think, and now when his control seems to slip away it's probably driving him crazy.

I stayed home for a couple of days after he fainted in our bathroom last Saturday. Sherlock, although he's very messy in other aspects of his life, is very neat when it comes to his personal appearance. He is almost cat-like in his love for personal cleanliness and fancies his daily washing ritual. Dare the person who disturbs him during it.

Thank God, he didn't hurt himself in the fall. I will never forget how afraid I was when I found him lying on the bathroom floor in his blue dressing gown, eyes closed, his otherwise red lips colourless and brittle and his ebony locks – damp from the shower – were a big contrast to his white, alabaster skin. He looked like Snow White in that moment, beautiful in his deathlike stillness. God, for a moment I really thought I was too late and that I had lost him to the shadows. I thought death had finally captured him in his dark arms and that everything had been in vain, that I had failed him again and that, after everything we had been through the last months, I still couldn't save him. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, his gaze confused. Pale, huge eyes, looking up at me, slowly changing their colour in the morning light that shined through our bathroom window and bathed the room in a warm light. He seemed so tired in that moment. Tired of the constant fighting, tired of this cruel world. God, I was so happy to see him alive, to see him breathing, that my chest nearly burst with joy.

I helped him up - ignoring his flinching when I touched him - because he was unable to support himself. Since I almost carried his thin body to our bedroom and helped him to lie down my fears for his wellbeing increased because now when I finally could hold him in my arms I could feel how frail he had become. He has always been very slim and bony but now he's almost emaciated. I could feel every bone through his layers of clothing, his collarbones too visible under his grey pyjama shirt and his hipbones cutting into my side, as I helped him to get comfortable. I patted his hair and he was too weak to avoid my touch. He closed his eyes as I slowly stroked his dark locks and his porcelain like face, reminding myself that he is still here, that he is still by my side, that he is alive - not whole, but alive. He had to be very uncomfortable by the touching but he still let me caress his alabaster skin for several minutes. I was so incredibly shaken by what had happened that I hadn't noticed until then that my whole body was quivering. I think Sherlock knew that I needed this short moment of physical contact between us; that I needed to feel him to convince myself that I hadn't lost him again. That he was still there. Not well, but still there.


	16. Chapter 15

After the bathroom incident I insisted that he should stay in bed for a couple of days. He obeyed and I was surprised – normally he never does as I say. I think part of his eager cooperation was due to the fact that he simply was too weak to move around by himself. He always bruises easily and this time was no different; he had terrible bruises on his body for several days. He looked like he had been in a fight with a couple of criminals and lost. I also tried to get some food in him but on this matter he didn't obey me as easily. He is so damn stubborn sometimes.

Slowly he got better and I – although I constantly worry about his well-being – had to go back to work. Although Sherlock is always one of my first priorities one of us have to pay the mortgage, and London's criminals don't sleep. After Moriarty's death the crime rate in London strongly increased. It seems that the criminals are fighting for the empty position as the Lord of Crimes, the position of the Consulting Criminal, the position of the spider. They try to prove who's the cruellest, who's the most reckless in their line of work and, so I, and my team, have to deal with an increasing number of gruesome and horrible murders and crimes.

There are times when I think Sherlock has sacrificed himself for nothing. Yes, he protected me, Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson and he released London from the insane criminal mastermind Moriarty, but for what? Only to see how it gets destroyed by another criminal, another crazy villain. When one of them is death there always seems to be others who are more than eager to fill his place. But even if I'm sometimes at the verge of giving up, I can't. I joined the Met to fight crimes and, most importantly, to save people and make the world a better place. I will continue to do that even if, at times, my work seems to be only a drop in the ocean.

I will continue for myself, for my team, for the people of London and for Sherlock.


	17. Chapter 16

**Please, let us all - for a moment - appreciate Solrosan's amazing skills as a writer and beta because without her this chapter would be a mess. **

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Sometimes I think there is nothing worse than knowing that a disaster is slowly approaching without being able to stop it.

Last night was bad. We almost didn't get any sleep because Sherlock had a very cruel nightmare and we spent the rest of the night awake. I read Hamlet to him in French, because I recently found out that my voice seems to calm him, to ground him, seems to give him something to hold on, when he has difficulties distinguishing between what's real and what isn't. He was a trembling mess next to me, holding my hand in his bony, ice-cold ones and trying to calm his rapid breathing.

Today was just as bad and somehow I knew it would only get worse. The case I was working on was bad. Really bad. There were children involved and it always gets me when I see what some people do to innocent children, children who have done nothing wrong in their short lives and who still have their whole lives ahead of them. These cases always wear me out, leaving me exhausted and doubting the good in people. Sherlock always says that I have a saviour-complex and that I should stop with the whole worrying and guilt thing because there are always things I won't be able to change, people I can't save, can't protect, and it helps no one if I make myself sick with guilt. He says it'll only cause me an early grave. Also, he tells me, I'm not allowed to die before him, and if I do he'll make sure that I won't find peace.

When I came home I found Sherlock in the living room. He was half-asleep on the sofa, listening to music. I greeted him and he acknowledged my presence with a slight nod. The bruises from the bathroom accident were still visible and there were dark circles under his bright eyes.

I made pasta for dinner because it is the only thing I'm really good at. Sherlock doesn't like pasta for some reasons. Too many different ingredients, I think. He prefers plain food and I thought it would be a better idea to make him toast and scrambled eggs. He likes eating that from time to time.

When we finally sat at the kitchen table I did something so very stupid: I yelled at him. I was so stupid, such a fool. How could I do that? Out of all things I could have done to hurt him this was probably the worst.

Sherlock was, as always, pushing the food round his plate. Playing with the eggs and picking the toast to pieces between his thin, long fingers, sometimes taking a small bite. Normally that's fine, he eats a bite or two and then he leaves. Tonight it just became too much for me. Everything simply became too much and I snapped. Oh God, I snapped. I told him to stop being such a child and to eat the bloody food. He tried to calm me by saying that he had already eaten today, but I know when he's lying about food by now and the lies just made me angrier and at the same time so incredibly sad.

I should know better by now, but everything that had built up inside me over these last months came pouring out and I blamed him for everything and said things I didn't even mean. He just got up from the table and left without looking at me. For that, I absolutely can't blame him.

I wish I could take it all back, every spiteful word, every false accusation. I would do anything to take it all back but the words are already said. The disaster has been done. Now the only thing I can do is pick up the pieces and hope that he'll forgive me.

Sherlock hasn't come to bed yet and I'm alone in our bedroom. I don't want to turn the lights off just yet because I'm still hoping he'll come so that we can talk, so that I can apologise. I don't think he will, though, because I can hear him crying in the living room. I try to convince myself that it's because of a nightmare, but it's probably my fault.

These days it seems the only thing I am really good at is hurting him…

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_**P.S: Reviews and feedback are really appreciated. **_


	18. Chapter 17

I got home early today because I had such a bad conscience after our fight yesterday. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a deathly silence instead of Tchaikovsky, Mozart or any other of Sherlock's favourite musicians resonating through our flat. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I could only think of one thing – _Sherlock_.

_Danger. Save him. Protect him._

Slowly, and trying to make as little sound as possible, I walked to the living room, hoping that my assumption that something bad had happened again really was only an assumption. I hoped that Sherlock would be safe and that he finally had overcome his need for sounds when he is alone. I tried to convince myself that I was overreacting because my nerves were worn out after too many weeks of worry, lack of sleep and constant fear of losing Sherlock to the shadows.

The living room door was ajar and I could hear a voice – definitely not Sherlock's – speaking. I opened the door slowly a little bit more to see who the intruder with this deep, cruel voice, that sent cold shivers down my spine, was.

A tall man stood in front of Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa. The man's huge, muscular form towered over Sherlock's smaller, bonier one. He had his back to me, one of his hands firmly closed around Sherlock's thin wrist and the other one holding him in place by one of his bony shoulders, using more force than necessary. I don't know why because Sherlock couldn't have escaped even if he had wanted to in the state he's in right now.

Sherlock's face was turned towards the door but his focus was on something else. His face was deathly pale, his eyes huge and full of fear. He seemed to be petrified. I've never seen him that scared in my entirely life, not even during the Baskerville case and the whole mess with that damn hound.

The man talked to Sherlock, his voice deep and dripping with malice, the words he said were slowly burned into my brain. He said that Sherlock needed him, that after Jim he was Sherlock's only intellectual equal and that Sherlock should finally admit that he _enjoyed_ their games, that he _missed_ their chase. That after Jim he was the only one. He said with a laugh that he knew Sherlock was more fond of him than of the man by his side – _me_ – and that Sherlock was a fool because couldn't he see that the only thing he really did was to pull me into the night with him.

_"You're killing him, Sherlock. Don't you see? Slowly and painfully. Oh, how selfish you are, my little detective. How cruel. With you dies his world. So why are you still holding on?"_

And with these words he was gone – escaped through the open window - before I could do anything.


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